


The Philosophical Sorrows (A Poetry Collection)

by philosophical_sorrows_official



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Other, Poetry, Slam Poetry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-08-23 14:57:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 2,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8332105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philosophical_sorrows_official/pseuds/philosophical_sorrows_official
Summary: Poetry by Chloe Marie Cea





	1. Loud Clouds

The storm is a loud cloud,  
He enters,  
With a booming voice,  
And strikes whatever stands in his wake.

He says, “I’m here and I’m here to stay.”  
But he always lies,  
And leaves us wondering whether his lie this time is a truth.

Are the other clouds scared?  
Yes, not because of the storm’s that coming,  
They can wait that out,  
Like every other time.

Their fear is becoming just like him.


	2. Spoonfuls into The Pit We Dug

He said, "Don't forget me" I knew I wouldn't,   
his memories were everywhere.   
I kept his face in my sorrow filled mind,   
as I closed my eyes, he would smile.   
His voice rang in my now empty ears,   
he whispered softly,   
as everything remain silent.   
His hands lingered on my bare waist,   
memories of him taunting me,   
shouting out to me,   
as I struggle to continue through the pointless,   
never ending movements of life.   
His fingertips ever so slowly brushed along my tingling arms,   
as if he were engulfing me in a restless sleep,   
muttering sweet words I would never hear again.   
Tossing and turning, I knew he wasn't truly there.   
Twisting and cursing to myself for believing he would never leave.   
Memories help you remember, while begging you to forget.   
I chose which path I would follow,   
as I agreed to his soft begging,   
"Don't forget me." He mumbled into my hair.   
I can only remember,   
what other choice can I have,   
as his eyes glisten with the fear of me forgetting who he was to me?   
I wiped his tears away, as I fought back a storm of my own.   
What a foolish thought!   
"I promise I won't."   
I gave him hope, as I tried to work my way around the lump in my throat.   
His warm brown eyes held me in a loving, yet violent embrace,   
as if a single look could lead me towards the pit we knew we were digging since day one. We never truly acknowledged what we were doing,   
but yet never denied it.   
And never thought too much about the dread leaving each other would bring;   
with each shovel full of removed dirt meant another memory made.   
The effort was never wasted, and we knew that.   
The pit is now done;   
the earth that was once there is now stored with us.   
We bring the dirt everywhere we go,   
to dump back spoonfuls at a time.   
The amount we keep,   
we use to cover what will someday be our cold, lifeless bodies into the ground.   
We dig when we're in love,   
because we aren't supposed to keep hidden.   
When we approach the end,   
we won't have to cover who we are,   
for we would have already revealed everything we have to show.   
Life is a show and tell, yet a little more complex.   
We prepare for what's ahead,   
letting go of all the unnecessary cargo,   
and experiencing little moments to remember along the way.   
Everything has a little beautiful, everything has a little ugly.   
It simply depends on how you view it.   
"Please remember me." I whisper to him,   
I cast a glance upwards,   
dancing my eyes across his face,   
taking each feature in,   
scraping a little dirt off the edge of the pit I knew we've finally finished.   
His brown eyes finally found mine,   
I embraced the familiar feeling that those eyes gave me.   
And, at that moment I realized that I've held on much too long.   
He has to go.   
And I have to let him.   
We were both ready, pretending we weren't,   
"I couldn't forget you."   
His lips curved into a sad grin.   
"Good." I told him for I knew I would soon forget myself,   
as I willingly only remembered him.   
Then we faced reality,   
and had our goodbyes.   
I would be lying if I said they were depressing,   
that word alone couldn't do that justice.   
I wanted to yell,   
I longed to drag him back to the place we called home.   
But the world is cruel, no one can stop that.   
We weren't the unexpected superheroes to stop the villain.   
We are just innocent citizens,   
at the wrong place, at the wrong time, waiting for someone to save the day.   
Unfortunately, our wishes were useless, that didn't happen.   
So, we embraced for the last time,   
and put everything we had into that last kiss.   
"Don't forget what we have." I nodded into his chest.   
Moments later, he let go of my hand.   
"I love you." He smiled sadly, I supressed tears.   
"I love you too." He smiled, then turned and left.   
Later, I found myself chucking spoonfuls of dirt into that pit we dug.   
We finished.   
The digging was accomplished,   
but now we must begin putting the earth back in place,   
filling the empty chasm that left us so sore.   
There are beautiful memories that I kept for myself and him.   
Some things you just can't convince yourself to throw away.   
It's not easy leaving, but once you do,   
we realize that we never truly lost anything.


	3. Something Beautiful

I just want to write something beautiful,  
To prove that I can be so much more,  
I know that my life is easily overlooked,  
Like an empty road in the dark.

 

But is it just me who is affected by an already read book?  
For you’ll never have the same element of surprise again.

 

And i know i’m jumping all over the place writing this,  
But beauty isn't in structure,  
The truth is that i'll never be a remembered poet,  
And I'll never have my poetry recited like Emily Dickinson’s,  
My writing is clumsy,  
Like drunk footsteps 

 

I don't lead a life to please everyone,  
But is anyone truly happy anymore?  
All I see is a world of people living for themselves,  
And i guess i do the same.

 

I think poetry comes from the subconscious,  
Maybe next time I should write about why I bite my nails and make crude jokes, ha ha,  
Is this beautiful?  
Hopefully you like a hopscotch of a poem,  
But I'll leave this to you...


	4. An Ode to The Reason Why Villains Are

These moments hit her like a ton of bricks,   
Or like in the comedy movies where the villain is crushed by a falling piano,  
But it’s a tragedy for her really.  
Villains become that way for a variety of good reasons, trust me.  
They say villains feel “entitled” to hurt the ones who hurt them,   
Or to make the bystander’s lives a living hell.   
She’s turned into the villain of this play,  
She never wanted to be, and never realized she was one,  
Until this very moment:

She lived in this beautiful wonderland,  
But was never happy.  
She had her accomplice,  
And the rulers gave them everything,  
But her and her accomplice couldn’t give back.  
Then, they finally caught on,   
The rulers were screaming, kicking her accomplice while he was down.  
She blamed most of the situation on him, of course (don’t all villains do that?),  
She was scared of their hurtful words.  
So, they got rid of her, calling her poison,  
Yet, kept her accomplice.  
They could fix him, they said, take the poison out of his veins.  
Then they took all her things, including her heart,  
Which was still pumping with poison.  
She was the root of all things evil.  
Her poison was causing this beautiful wonderland to come tumbling down.

So they cast her out into the harsh winter,  
Where the leaves never grew back on the trees,  
Hot days never came,  
And never did she see the leaves fade into breathtaking colors again.  
She wanted tem to forgive her,   
To give her a chance to change,  
But they never did.  
She became one with the snow,  
Accepting her fate with the creatures of the cruel winter.  
Going insane, she imagined a world with color, warmth, flowers and blue skies.  
Then she woke up to a world of gray, and harsh winds.  
The only thing that grew was a void of emptiness that she filled with a fiery anger, that hid a growing depression.  
She wallowed in a world so cold.  
Not a villain to anyone but herself.

“They” were her family,   
Her “accomplice” her brother and their son,  
And the “villain” their daughter and his sister.  
But now the villain was alone,   
And dying.


	5. A Divergent Series Poem: Truly Dauntless (A Poem in Tobias' Point of View)

I'm trying to fly,  
but without you I can't.  
The train's moving too fast  
and I'm afraid of losing all of you. Before it was a piece of cake to jump on,  
but now my feet are too heavy. Everywhere I look I see you. 

Here another piece of you remains  
and this zip line screams your name,  
I see now what you saw,  
not just the adrenaline thrill,  
but what pulls us all together.  
I hear your laughter,  
I breathe out,  
close my eyes  
and join in


	6. Not So Extraordinary

We live like beggars,  
always longing for more,  
urging others to give us what we want.  
Yet never learning to appreciate what we have at this very moment.  
We shake our cans for spare change,  
but never bother to take a look in our own pockets.

We look at our pasts with disdain,   
and to our futures with hope.  
The past is never too far,  
and the future seems to stretch miles upon miles.   
We learn to hate what is closer to us,  
and love what has drifted too far.

What a twisted mindset we have,  
life’s never ending push and pull,  
forcing ourselves to find comfort in what will always be painfully familiar.  
We aren’t happy because we insist on living boring lives,  
ironically saying we want to be extraordinary.


	7. An Ode To An Ordinary Life

You are here,  
and you are ordinary.

You stumble and mumble;  
life’s confusing, seen by excited, bright eyes.

You run and yell;   
life’s fast, but you’re faster.

You walk and talk;  
life’s now a blur, expectations waiting to be reached.

You sit and converse;  
life’s now a breeze, filled with laughter and visits to the sea.

You lay and breathe;  
life is almost over, but your mind is still racing with memories lived and stories told and you realize:

You were here and you were ordinary.


	8. She's A Beautiful Disease

She put her pencil to the paper and that’s when her thoughts came to life.  
Everyone called her crazy while everyone disagreed,  
only the written paper held the proof they needed.

They read her scribbled words, reread them and finally diagnosed them.  
Just like they diagnosed her.

And others read her careful words, reread them and declared them beautiful.  
Just like she once felt and always will be.

Is crazy beautiful or a disease?  
Personally, I think it’s a bit of both,  
a beautiful disease and a diseased kind of beautiful.

I knew her words.

I read the first and received the last.  
The first were a beautiful disease, a disease that could cure,   
and the last were a diseased kind of beautiful, words that left me incurable.

Can we cure this crazy?  
Or just leave it how it is?

We tried to fix this disease,  
but we left her for dead.


	9. A Sense Of Freedom

The sense of oppression is a pair of hands.  
Strangling you, drowning you.  
Then gripping you, saving you.  
And they expect you to be grateful for that.  
Some escape,   
finding a way to slip through the spaces between the fingers,   
while some enjoy the cracks of sunlight they can see while in the grasp of their oppressors.  
And the rest are choking, wishing for the control of their own lives.  
The world is filled with obstacles that block our way to the sun.  
All we want is to feel the warmth of day,   
but the hands push us into the dirt.  
Covering our eyes with gravel and dust, trying to turn us into the sightless monsters they are.

Yet, if we are strong enough,   
We can rise above,   
break those hands and chop off the fingers.   
Make sure we never become like them.  
They’re damned, but we’re not.

So, our hands become a sense of freedom,  
For the world of darkness around us.


	10. Death Opens Eyes

I take my last breath,   
And open my eyes.  
This isn’t so bad.

I drop to my knees on the stained tile floor,   
And look into my own lifeless eyes.  
What I have done,   
This isn’t so bad.

I gently close my staring eyes and try to think of better times,   
But now they are out of reach.  
Could I have made more?

As I hear the slow dripping of a leaky faucet,  
I stand up and give my soulless body a regretful last glance.

And what I felt before this,   
Is only a trickle of what I feel now.  
And if I could twist that faucet onto full blast,   
That wouldn’t even begin to emphasize what I’m experiencing now.

That wasn’t the answer.  
This wasn’t a success.

Now I’m truly alone.  
But I wasn’t then.

Because now they’re at the door,  
And in a few minutes they’ll be all around me.

I’m the one who closed my own eyes,  
Blinded myself from the help around me.

Death opens eyes,  
For death is the one who sees truth.


End file.
